Never Truly Alone

rev. hannah elyse cornthwaite, CDW
November 2, 2025
Wisdom 3:1–9

“But the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them.”

The Book of Wisdom rarely appears in our lectionary cycle — and I will confess, every time it does, I have a moment of: wait… which one is this again?
My Bible drill brain still runs the Hebrew Scriptures — and Wisdom isn’t there.
Is Wisdom of Solomon the same as Song of Solomon?
Nope.

So I want to name — and reinforce to my seminary-educated self — what this book actually is.

The Book of Wisdom, or Wisdom of Solomon, is part of the Apocrypha — those additional writings the Catholic Church canonized and that we Anglicans / Episcopalians hold onto. It was written in Greek, which is why it is one of the few texts that does not appear in the Jewish canon.

Most scholars believe it was written in late 1st century BCE Alexandria — by a Jewish community living under foreign rule, wrestling with uncertainty, hostility, injustice, suffering, and death. And in the midst of that anxiety, this beautifully poetic book is trying to answer:
What does it mean to trust God when the world does not feel safe?
What does righteousness mean when the world is not righteous?
What happens to the faithful when they die?

The answer Wisdom offers — beneath the poetry — is this:
God’s care does not end at death.
The righteous are held, not erased.
Their story – and our call – continues beyond what we can see.

This is not abstract theology. It is deeply relational.
And it echoes across cultures, across peoples, across languages.

As I’ve met both unexpected and expected losses in my life — and as I’ve wrestled with grief and anger over lives lost to war, gun violence, and injustice in this country and throughout the world — I have had to learn how to honor people in ways that call me toward change and action. I have also had to learn how to honor my own beloveds: celebrating the beautiful imprints they left in my life, while giving myself space to work through the places where pain still lives. 

Death and loss are complicated — and holding all of it is holy work.

One of the greatest gifts the Episcopal Church has given me is the freedom to let other spiritual traditions stand with our Scripture and our rituals — to be in conversation, not competition — and to speak life into one another.

In my Choctaw tradition, life and spirit are also understood relationally. The Choctaw speak of the shilup, the life-soul that journeys from us to the Creator after death, and the shilombish, the spirit that remains near the land and community. Both aspects remain connected — to the Creator, to the living, and to the world itself. Death is not disappearance; it is a transformation of relationship.

Wisdom emphasizes this — in this striking image: “As gold in the furnace, God tried them.” I want to be very clear about my personal theology - I do not believe God themself “tries” us - as in makes or allows bad things to happen to us in order that we prove ourselves. 

Rather, the “trying” here is an acknowledgment that though we may suffer in life, and our trials may be or cause injustice — like gold refined by fire, souls are purified, strengthened, and made luminous by our Creator. 

Similarly, in Choctaw spirituality, the soul’s journey after death — crossing rivers or bridges to reach the good land — is a passage toward harmony, a movement into right relationship. For me this transformation is redemption. Taking what was broken and purifying, strengthening, redeeming it into a vessel in which new life can emerge. Life and death are not separated; they are woven into ongoing relationships with the Divine and with community.

The righteous and righteousness isn’t something that has to be met in this life - which I find so much peace and hope in. In Wisdom, righteousness is not perfection, but faithful relationship with God — living justly, showing mercy, and trusting in God even in hardship. In Choctaw thought, too, life in balance — with community, with the land, with the Creator — is the measure of a good life. Both traditions call us to live intentionally, to honor the connections that hold us together. And if not met in this life, refined in the next. 

The text concludes with another radiant image:
“In the time of their visitation they will shine forth, and will run like sparks through the stubble.”

This sparks a vision of vitality and presence — not in distant abstraction, but so alive in the world, among the living. Our ancestors, refined, transformed, redeemed, remain with their people — their presence felt in the land, in memory, in daily life. The ancestors, in their redeemed selves, shine through us, inspiring courage, love, and faithfulness.

Friends, as we remember those who have gone before us, and as we contemplate our own lives, we hear this promise: the souls of the righteous are held. They are not lost; they are part of the ongoing story of love and life. Whether we speak of it as being in God’s hand, or walking with the ancestors, the message is the same: we are never truly alone. Our lives, our trials, our joys, and our departures are all embraced in a web of divine and communal care.

May this promise sustain us, guide us, and shape the way we live: with courage, love, and gratitude, knowing that we, too, are held in the hand of God, and that one day, like sparks through the stubble, we will shine forth.

Amen.